Category Archives: Random Musings

Okay, so it’s Christmas(time) and my in-laws are in town and it’s snowing and I almost died in a grisly pile up (in my mind) with my two little dudes in a blizzard yesterday and methinks there is a non-“the Man” company that wants to employ me and I got addicted to Groupon , which will probably lead to bankruptcy shortly, plus I got an iPod touch for Christmas that I have been making passionate love to (the iPod might call it “rape” though) for two whole days and Tiger hasn’t called me since Thanksgiving and I’m sure there are a lot of other good excuses, but the net of it is that I can’t sit down and write for hours this week, as I am generally wont to do. The App Store is just too alluring. But I’m sure the excitement and anticipation of 2010 will change ALL that. I mean, it should, right? Except that I have neither anticipation or excitement for 2010. I think because I’m still following @Johncmayer on Twitter.

Oh, and nobody except my biggest blogger BFF herself commented on the first part of my last trilogy, so either nobody is reading, or it just kind of sucked ass and Belle was too nice to just say so. I can totally cut that storyline off. I mean, I still haven’t shared about the time I was falsely imprisoned in a Chicago taxicab for 35 harrowing minutes by a dude that looked like Seal, only worse, but still made it to my own dinner party in one piece. You know.

So holla if you care one way or another.

Peace.

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BD and I went out last night on a real, live date. We usually go out to eat once a week sans kids, but it’s usually a quick dinner around 6 – when all the old people are just finishing up. Last night, the kids stayed somewhere else and for once, we didn’t have to be home at any given time. We went to dinner late when all the cool-people-without-children eat, drank a lot of wine and went to a late night Christmas-themed burlesque show a friend of mine was in, which was a first for both of us. The dancing ladies paid particularly close attention to BD, (maybe because my friend told them to), and we just laughed and cat called and a tipsy BD even was pulled up on stage to dance. It felt like we were 22 again and I was transported back to a time before marriage, mortgages, and motherhood. And apocalypse planning and terrible hang overs. But I won’t lie — it was totally. mindblowingly. awesome.

And at some point during the evening, “Round Here” by the Counting Crows came on (which is the best heaping helping of awesomeness ever served up in a pop song, EVER) and we discovered for the first time, after being together 10 years, that both of us distinctly remembers exactly where we were the first time we heard that song. It was a defining moment for both us, like where we were when the Challenger blew up and JFK Jr.’s plane went down and 9/11. And it was the same moment for both of us too– when the Counting Crows were on SNL in 1994 — that we both heard it. Proof that across time and space we were totally meant to be (don’t fight me on this, quantum physicists). Anyway, that got me thinking of a note I wrote to myself a month later when I was a senior in high school, after a particularly bad relationship, which turned out to be eerily prescient. Its one of the only things I wrote that year that isn’t both hilarious and atrocious in its over-the-top ridiculousness, although it is still both of those in many parts.

Anyway, it’s time to put it out there, but not without my additional comments in red. This one’s for you, BD:

February 1994

To The ‘One’:

I wonder what you’re doing now. I wonder where you live and I wonder, God forbid, if I know you. My guess is that I’ll meet you in college and I guess that’s about the right time for me, but we’ll see. Well, I just broke up with another boyfriend, and probably things which I had experienced with him, I’ll remember when I’m with you.

Like I hope that you aren’t obsessive, whether it is with a drug, a person , an idea, or even me. I also hope you aren’t the jealous type, someone who smothers me and demands all of my attention and time. Although I hope to spend my entire life with you, and be in love with you always and forever, I just don’t want us to lose OURSELVES.

I won’t define myself as YOUR wife, but a huge part of me will be dedicated to our relationship and your happiness and well-being.

So, a friend is setting me up with another guy. Who knows? It could be you. Then again, I could do something or experience something with this guy which may, even in a small way, affect us (hopefully I wasn’t talking about contracting HIV). Kind of strange, huh? I mean, everyday I get closer to the one that I’ll meet you, and I wonder if I’ll even know the significance of it. Have you ever thought that the first time you set your eyes on someone, you could know in that instant that you were going to fall in love with them? It’s never happened (obviously) to me, but I think that when and if it does, he will be you (HA! This part came true). I don’t know if this is strange, because I’m only 17, but all I want to do right now is find the one I’m going to marry (you) and do it ASAP. If I’m 20, and I know it’s you, I’ll be ready to get married as soon as it’s convenient. (Really? As soon as it’s convenient?) I guess I assume you’ll feel the same way, but I guess I also assume we’ll agree on almost everything (um, no.).

I wonder if you’ll be as in love with me as I will be with you. My last boyfriend says that my husband will be whipped (meaning able to make all of his opinions, beliefs and thoughts fit to my own) also meaning (when asked to do something, does it for no other reason than that he was asked) (My last boyfriend was also a total ass). Well, I know if that’s being whipped, its where I’ll be. I guess I believe a married couple should be (um, no.). Well, cheers to one day less I’ll have to wait before meeting you, love.

Love always, Love

So it didn’t all turn out like I thought it would. BD and I met after college, but it turns out we were actually in the same class at the same university and just never met, even though we shared several mutual friends. And it turns out that the first time I saw BD, I did know he was to be my husband. Because I’m psycho psychic like that. However, I wouldn’t say that either of us is whipped, by my ex-boyfriend’s definition at 17. We do not agree on everything, especially as it relates to the best way to mix up packets of instant oatmeal (hot tap water, obviously), whether LED light bulbs are the worst things ever invented, or the best (they are the worst), or how many dish towels are necessary for one household (the more, the merrier, I maintain).

But all in all, I did alright. Sure, I had to stalk him, and it took a year for that first (terrible) date, but with Oprah’s encouragement, I finally landed him and started living my best life — and now I have BD, bacchanalias and burlesque. What else do I need?

I know I shouldn’t care and it’s none of my business and it’s a little disgusting and disturbing, but I’m obsessed with this whole Tiger-Woods-cheating-on-his-wife-with-several-bleached-blonde-VIP-club-waitresses thing. I’m not totally sure why. Well, I’ll admit to being quite intrigued by the whole story that Elin beat him with a golf club (the irony!), which of course is awesome. But I just want his wife to slap his face and walk away. I feel like she must leave him or maybe I’ll die. Why the outcome of this fiasco is meaningful in any way to me is disturbs me, but somehow it matters. Like I want to yell, “Elin, don’t let this boy DO you like that! Walk out on his punk ass and don’t look back!” But I don’t know him or her. Or about their pre-nup, which I think matters a lot when you’re one of the most famous/talented people in the world. I mean, as evidenced by my very scientific poll (question 3) way back when, I have always thought that women that marry rock stars or professional athletes are crazy if they think their man isn’t cheating, but golfers don’t count. At least, until now. But thanks to Cheetah Tiger, I’ll add them to the list.

But I’m completely naive about these matters. Marital infidelity is something I have a hard time wrapping my mind around. I just don’t understand why you don’t just leave someone if you want to cheat on them. Just admit you suck at being married, get a divorce, and then sleep with whoever, whenever you want. But don’t do it while you’re married, behind your spouse’s back and kiss your kids goodnight like you’re not totally fucking up their whole world because you’re horny.

I’ve never been tempted to cheat on my husband. Perhaps it’s because neither Angelina Jolie nor Milo Ventimiglia has begged me to have sex with them, or maybe it’s because cheating on my husband would devastate him, and our children and our families and undo everything we’ve done together. Or maybe it’s because I’ve never understood casual relationships/sex. I’ve never had a one night stand. Not for any sort of moral/ethical/religious reason – more because it would introduce too many unknowns for me. I’m a binary person that likes things settled. Things are black or they are white. You’re married or you aren’t. You’re in love or you’re not. You’re with somebody or you aren’t. Oprah is your BFF or she isn’t. It’s hard for me tolerate “it’s complicated” or “lets not put a label on it” or “let’s just see what happens”. So I just don’t get how you can live a life being married to someone, but cheating on them and lying about it all the time. I’m just a total Pollyanna on this subject — I can’t help myself.

I’m 33 years old, so I should have this figured out. Or understand it a little. And YET, when married men hit on me I’m always completely surprised by it. Especially when it’s a married man who knows I’m also married. I’ve found myself in this situation way more than I think is logically probable, which causes it to dawn on me WAY later than it should. Generally this occurs sometime during what I think is a routine lunch meeting, but which he thinks is his chance to get laid. When they start getting shady (one guy told me nonchalantly, completely out of the blue: “I really like small breasted women, like about your size, because my wife’s breasts are so large. Clothes just don’t fit on her as well as they do on you.” To which my mind replies : “Oh dear Jesus! We’re not talking about business anymore. He totally wants to sleep with me! He’s married!! I’m married!! How could he even think for a second I’m interested in him like that? Ew…. EWWWWW… Must. Get. Out of here. FAST.”

I totally panic like a deer caught in headlights when a guy starts getting suggestive because in my world, if you’re married, you’re married, so you’re not making it a top priority to get in my pants. But apparently I’ve run into several men that don’t share that world view. And then I spend the next week wondering why, of all the chicks in the world he could be spending his time trying to sleep with, he chose me. Me, who is married with two young kids. Me, who has absolutely zero interest in him outside of work, who does not flirt with him or dress provocatively. Me, with tiny boobs and glasses and a muffin top. But also me, who is intelligent, charismatic, hilarious, pretty awesome and completely modest. And married. Do I look like some one who wants another woman’s husband? What makes him think he could even compete for a second with my husband? Honestly, I’m baffled by this. Why me?

But I think I finally may have got an answer today I can live with. I brought up the whole Tiger Woods thing (because I’m obsessed with it, as I said) with a totally random British male coworker about 28 years my senior today. He was saying he was totally sick of the story and couldn’t get why Americans even care when people cheat, since cheating is so rampant here. He travels a lot on business and says that he is never at a hotel where he doesn’t find married people having affairs all over the place. Really? I guess I’ve never noticed, but then again, I probably wouldn’t see it if it slapped me in the face, because I don’t look for it and I like to pretend it doesn’t happen.

I told him I’ve had several of my clients want to turn a totally normal business relationship into some type of sexual/romantic relationship, and all of them were married and all of them knew I was married as well. “Well, I don’t know you very well, but I would say it’s easy to see why they would hit on you. You’re a very open, transparent and funny. I bet you talk to them about their families. Most people aren’t like that, so you probably make your customers feel so comfortable and they mistake your openness for romantic interest in them.” Reeeally? I make my living selling. Salespeople are supposed to show interest in their clients. I just never thought that asking a client something like, “Did your son win his soccer game this weekend? ” would so easily be translated by that man into “do you want to have a torrid, illicit affair in the back of my Subaru?”. Maybe I should stop asking my clients about their kids.

Per June’s comment, I put this back in:

Oprah had a dude on her show that said the reason that men cheat on their wives is that they don’t feel their wife thinks they are “special” or important or awesome. So in order to prop up their fragile egos, they will go out and find someone to have an affair with who does make them feel special and manly and awesome. The kicker is that almost always the women men cheat on their wives with are less attractive, less educated, and pretty much less everything than their wife. So I guess I must make my male clients all feel special and loved. But then that means that if they want to have an affair with me, they also think I’m less attractive than their wives. And I’m offended by that. Assholes. Next time one of my clients literally wants to screw me, I’ll remember that they think their wife is hotter and I’ll just kick them in their old balls. Then maybe their wife won’t seem so bad after all.

My husband just passed me the Kaukauna port wine spreadable cheese and I find myself strangely overcome with lust and desire. For the cheese. And as I skimmed a little of it off the top with a fresh Wheat Thin (BAKED! Not fried!) just now and savored its pure awesomeness, suddenly my head heard the lyrics to “My Favorite Things” from the Sound of Music. And I thought, hell, I haven’t written on my blog recently. I shall post about my favorite things. Because everybody totally cares about them.

Which naturally led me to think of Oprah, and her favorite things. Remember when she would do that Oprah’s Favorite Things show where she would just talk about products the whole time while her audience members got all the stuff? The first couple of years she did that show, it was off the hook. I would watch and lust after all the stuff she picked out, in awe that the whole audience got to take it all home. But by year three, that show just pissed me off. All those screaming, fainting whores audience members got thousands of dollars worth of stuff for being a damn teacher or because someone wrote Oprah a note and said they helped an orphan escape from Russia or they just showed up on the right day. I’d feel like crap, because the only time I got tickets for Oprah was immediately following 9/11 and hurricane Katrina. I shit you not. Anyway, I just got to the point where I stopped watching that show every year because it would just make me angry that I wasn’t there while all those lucky ass bitches jumped around with their heads turning around 360 degrees and popping off (which mine would have as well, no doubt).

Jealousy is a bitch. Sometimes I would tell myself that she picked out all lame stuff I wouldn’t want or know what to do with anyway – like soaps that are like $13 and refrigerators with built-in TVs that would probably only fit into 5% of the kitchens in this great nation. And I couldn’t help but wonder if a cable or satellite hookup was necessary and who the hell has that stuff in the kitchen? See? So who would want to win that on Oprah’s Favorite Things? Me. ME, DAMMIT!! That show made me hate myself. Thanks, Oprah.

Then one year Oprah decided instead of giving away an obscene amount of shit to people, she would give everybody $100, and then they’d have to go out and give it to someone else and whoever was the most creative or made the most out of that $100 got to come back at a later show. Ha ha Bit-chez! That put a smile on my face because I knew as the cameras panned the crowd of pleasantly smiling faces, those women and their mothers were secretly thinking: “God DAMN you, OPRAH! I got a ticket for your Favorite Things show and all I’m taking away is this punk-ass gift card and a mandate to give it to someone else? I fucking hate you. And your dogs too.” But I’m sure in the end, giving away that $100 made them feel so good and warm and nice inside that they didn’t hold a grudge. Or tell everyone they knew how they got screwed and wanted to die. Which would totally have been my — I mean, a healthy reaction. I’m pretty sure.

Anyway, I digress. It’s just that I can’t think about Oprah’s Favorite Things without wonder, fascination and pure snarkiness. On to revealing my majestic list of favorite things. If I had a blog wherein I could name all my favorite things and give them to those of you that regularly comment, this is what you would get:

8.) Vaseline Cocoa Butter Deep Conditioning lotion. I suppose it’s a good moisturizer, but more importantly it somehow captures “new baby smell” like you’re within a few inches of a newborn’s little head at all times. I get high off the fumes on a pretty regular basis. SO much easier than having to give birth again.

10) Tickets to Oprah’s show. If you get them, be sure to let me know. We can go together and hope that my attendance doesn’t mark the end of the world. Oh yeah, and did I ever tell you about the time BD turned down a job at Harpo? She brings everybody and their families on these really swank all-expenses paid vacations every year. I would have hunted her down and convinced her by now of our destiny if he’d just taken it. But he didn’t. And we’re still married. That’s love.

11) Josh Groban’s “Noel”. Shut up. Wipe the smirk off your face, because I’m giving it to you for free, bitch.

Okay, and go to this post to see the Oprah Favorite Things SNL skit, along with all my favorite YouTube stuff…

So I feel like if you got those 12 things today, you probably wouldn’t have a need for anything else. Ever. Feel free to print and substitute for your Christmas/ Hanukkah / Kwanzaa/ Festivus list. One day when I am rich and famous and lunching regularly with Oprah, I will make sure that my commenters do receive all of these things, making your friends seethe with jealousy and rage.

About three years ago Oprah did a show where she had some guy on that had some title that made him sound really smart and important and government connected who said that one of these days, probably very soon, we’d have a pandemic like the bubonic plague and when we did, the whole world would pretty much shut down and there would be no running water or gas or electricity or anything else. No businesses would be open, and the ATMs wouldn’t work but money would be pretty worthless anyway, transportation wouldn’t be available and you would be pretty much on your own to defend your house and family from death by hunger, disease, looters, riots or gangs.

Great. I struggle daily just to cook up some frozen chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese every night to feed my family and now I’m finding out I have to plan for my family to eat and survive for at least two weeks with lawlessness, no running water, heat, or Tivo? He predicted no mail either, so it isn’t even like I’ll have my US Weekly or O Magazine to fall back on for emergency emotional support.

This was a lot to take in, so I paused Tivo and then begrudgingly put down my chocolate covered pretzels and Fruit2O and drove myself to Costco. I had never been there before but it seemed like a good place to go for buying life’s essentials in bulk. My plan was to buy us enough stuff to live on so I wouldn’t have to be one of the inevitable grocery store looters. Although I’d like the record to reflect that if I did have to loot a grocery store, I would concentrate in Aisle 12 and make sure I cleaned them out of Twizzlers and Take 5 bars, which would be enough sustenance to get me through just about anything.

So I get to Costco all fired up about the end of the world and how I needed to get important stuff for survival and — is that a plasma HD TV? Holy shit that is huge and it looks like I’m right there! Ping Pong tables? OMG – I love ping pong! Check out that leather recliner!! I felt compelled to sit in it and rock for a few minutes. Just to lower my heart rate. I mean, Costco held treasures I had only dreamed about. Who knew you could get new tires or new glasses, or even granite countertops there? I went in there expecting to see a grocery store and I found a delightful land of electronics and books and random shit that all seemed cheap enough to be within reach. How could you say no to Costco?

But wait. Dammit! I’m here on a mission to save my family from certain death when the worst happens. We need water. And a first aid kit! And….and….Fuck? What do you need in an emergency? I get there and realize that I have no idea what I’m supposed to be buying to keep us alive. I mean, none. But I have found some great flannel sheets, really cheap diapers and ten pounds of frozen crab rangoon. Need. to. focus. Must…shop….for Armageddon.

It is important to say now that I’m almost physically incapable of a coherent thought in most large retail stores. Which is why I try to avoid them like Brazilian bikini waxes. Too much visual or audio stimuli makes my brain overheat and short circuit very quickly. I no longer leave my house after November 1 because I’m sure all that Christmas music and shit all over the place is a monster that wants to feast on my brain. So I shop on the Internet for everything*, including groceries. (*except Banana Republic, because Leonardo knows my soul and just puts me in the dressing room and brings me stuff, so I my mind doesn’t go into overdrive and somehow bend time).

But I digress. So it took me two hours in Costco to complete my pre-apocalypse shopping spree to secure my family’s safety and survival, should all hell break loose and society become like it was depicted in “The Road” , where people were eating each other and such (which, by the way, if you read this book and you don’t think it was a masterpiece, I pity you). Given my handicap of shopping at large retail outlets, I did the best one could reasonably expect. I didn’t pass out. I didn’t leave with a migraine. It wasn’t Christmas season. It was kind of spectacular.

It was all so much to take in at the time and I was so giddy with pride in the fact that I had found out firsthand what the inside of Costco looked like and I was a full-fledged member and I got all the stuff we needed to survive and it was all less expensive than the grocery store. I called BD from the car and told him to prepare himself, because I had a lot of stuff and we’d have to store it and we were going to live well when the pandemic struck. So I pull in the garage and pop the trunk because I couldn’t wait to show off all that I had accomplished. I anticipated BD’s reaction to be one of awe mixed with gratitude, mixed with deep passion for me because of the bold initiative and genius I had shown. He surveyed the contents of the trunk, and looked up at me in utter confusion.

BD: “Seriously?”

Love: “Um. Yeah. See the water?!”

BD: “I see an air hockey table.”

Love: “Oh. Well, that isn’t part of the stuff for the apocalypse. That was just on sale.”

BD: “?”

Love: “Maybe you didn’t see the first aid kit?”

BD: “Yeah, I think all of the wine bottles must be covering it.”

Together, we went through the items I felt we would need to survive as a family of three (at the time) and the dog.

Two palettes of bottled water

A large assortment of gummy fruit snacks

A big bear full of animal cookies

7 bags of penne noodles

A 10-pack of Hanes crew socks, size 9-12

3 large cans of spaghetti sauce

An air hockey table

A box of Huggies

A family first aid kit

3 pounds of fresh strawberries

Eli’s cheesecake sampler, party size

A gallon of shampoo

Four bottles of wine

An 8 pack of Progresso chicken noodle soup

Some super-cute Carters footsie pajamas for my toddler

Yeah, I guess I was a little underwhelmed too. At the store it seemed like I had everything necessary plus a few fun extras. I looked at my husband, worried.

Love: “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

BD: “Uh huh.”

My husband is a problem solver. Me, not so much. But my husband doesn’t like to problem solve in advance of a problem. So I’m sure he would spring into action with ingenious plans to fight off disease and hunger and angry mobs and looters once they were all at our doorstep, but until then, I think his focus is on mowing the lawn every week. But I asked him for his help anyway, hoping that he would see this as the serious situation it is, and start our family survival plan.

Love: “Do you think we need a gun? We might need it to protect ourselves.”

BD: “Maybe.”

Love: “What about cash? Should we have a stash in the house somewhere, in case the ATMs don’t work?!”

BD: “Probably.”

Love: (brightening) “With guns and cash in our house, we’d totally be like the Sopranos.”

BD: “Not really.”

Love: (worried again) “But neither of us knows how to shoot a gun. And I don’t want a gun because they’re scary and our kids will probably wind up shooting us when they’re teenagers. And I don’t know where a good place to hide cash is. I’ve seen shows on Discovery where the ex-cons find all your money in like 5 seconds. It would take me forever to think of where to hide the money. Where would we hide it?!”

BD: “I don’t know.”

Love: “Well, we need a plan!”

BD: “Huh?”

Love: “For the love of GOD, what are we going to dooooooo?!!”

BD: “?”

Love: “To SURVIVE? You know what would be easier? To just forget I ever saw that show.”

BD: “Maybe.”

Love: “Okay. I have a headache. Why don’t we just work on it slowly. Like maybe we should buy a safe first, so we have somewhere to put the money and the guns.”

BD: “We’re not getting guns.”

Love: “Good plan. What about money?”

BD: “How much money were you thinking?”

Love: “Like $200? Or $2,000? I guess it depends on how much do you think it would cost to pay people not to kill us?”

BD: “More than $200. Maybe like $5,000.”

Love: “That’s a lot of money to hide. And it wouldn’t be earning interest. It just doesn’t seem fiscally responsible. I don’t know…”

BD: “Um…the football game is about to start, so….”

Love: “Yeah, okay. Right. Why don’t we discuss this later?”

BD: “Yeah, definitely.”

And, three years later, we have weathered an economic meltdown and a global pandemic and once our power went out for 45 minutes and we still don’t have guns or cash in our house and we’re still alive and US Weekly is still being delivered. But every three months I have a panic attack about how we just have some 3-year old penne noodles and Progresso soup in the cellar to keep us alive. And BD started drinking our water supply because he said its past the expiration date and he isn’t letting it go to waste. So we don’t even have that.

I guess I just want everybody to know when the world meltdown occurs, we’re fucked. When they find and/or eat our dead bodies, we didn’t die because I totally didn’t see it was coming or because I didn’t think about planning for it, because I did! I donate 3 hours of time each month to panickingthinking about planning for it and that should count for something. What is really most important is just that everyone knows that I was right about it coming and that you don’t use this information to break in my house first because you know I don’t have a gun, or food or money, or this month’s “O”. And we won’t taste good. I promise.

It came to my attention today that there are 3 people in this world who regularly read my blog and those three people are probably worrying themselves sick that I’m dead, or they just can’t find out how to unsubscribe from me on Google Reader. But if it’s the former, you should know I’m not dead. I’m just kind of tired. Of life AND the Internet. Both are just pretty lame for me right now.

For instance, people stopped using Facebook about three months ago. The people who used to have updates every day are gone. Or maybe they blocked me. Or maybe thats just me not knowing how the hell to see statuses since FB just randomly changes stuff around all the time. Where did everybody go? What is the new Facebook so I can sign up quickly and be smug about what a trend-setter I am?

And in the blogging world, it seems like everyone has really slowed down as well. I mean, perhaps everything that can be said, has been said and there isn’t a single new thing to blog about. So if the collective Internet machine is going to take a break, so am I. I need to be inspired. By some really great blogging or good stories or Oprah and Ellen on the “O” cover or something. So if you’re reading this and you have a blog – go write something good. Please. The Internet NEEDS YOU right now. So does Love.

My five year old has recently become inspired — by a posthumous Michael Jackson. He begs me to play Smooth Criminal and They Don’t Really Care About Us and Thriller all the time. And that would be fine, except then he insists that I watch him dance. And that would be fine, except he never stops AND then he wants a critique. And that isn’t fine, because I have an Internet to surf, albeit a lame one.

Like a good mother, I tell him that he keeps getting better and you know what he tells me? That God whispers in his ear at night about new dance moves that he can “magically” do in the morning. I don’t know how I feel about this. Maybe my kid is schizo. Or maybe even from the grave, Michael Jackson is trying to lure small boys to grab their crotches and do pelvic thrusts so Michael can clap in heaven. I already have a history of having angels talk to me, so now I’m perturbed that Michael Jackson is my son’s angel and the next thing you know, he is going to want a hyperbaric chamber for Christmas. Or a chimp. Or MacCauley Culkin in sequined pants — none of which is in the budget (although I should check into the MacCauley thing – at this point in his career he might fit in the budget…). So needless to say, I have a lot going on these days trying to save my son’s soul from a dead Michael Jackson, but it still isn’t that inspiring and not enough for a whole blog. I guess if it does become enough for an entire post, I’m screwed.
Be well, Internet. I will be back when I find something I’m excited to write about again.

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I’m kind of psychic. Seriously. Unfortunately it isn’t the kind of psychic where I can win the lottery, but I don’t feel that bad because nobody is that kind of psychic, or else they’d keep winning the lottery and laugh at all of the rest of us until Congress passed a law about psychics not being allowed to play and then whoever won from then on would be accused of being psychic and burned at the stake or publicly hung, and it would be bad, real bad (Michael Jackson) so it’s really for the best that I’m not that kind of psychic.

I’m also not the kind of psychic like John Edward or those women on psychic detectives, although I totally wish I was. I would creep people out all the time by proclaiming that I hear and see dead people, in a really creepy voice that would give people the shivers and not want to be my friend. But I think I could do a really good job just making vague references to “bodies of water” or “the number seven” or ” a grove of trees” or “the letter ‘M'”, which I think pretty much sums up what psychics tell detectives. Next time someone goes missing, just tell people you got this weird vision of “a body of water, by a road, and a grove of trees” and that you sense “something about the head…” because I mean, nobody dies from a kick in the shin. If you get killed, 90% of the time, it involves some type of bad thing happening on or near your head area and you can bet your ass your body is going to be hidden either by a road, by some trees, or by a body of water. Unless you get an asshole that buries your body in their basement. Then the psychics will never find you. But that won’t stop them from watching Sesame Street that day and taking both the number and the letter of the day as psychic clues into your disappearance. But I didn’t say all this to freak you out. This isn’t me as a psychic telling you that you’re going to die. As we’ve covered, I’m not that kind of psychic. I won’t be able to find you – most especially if you’re in somebody’s basement. Although you might have cancer, so I would check for that. We all have to get it at some point. I’ve already had my turn, so it might be yours this time.

I’m not a pet psychic either. If I were, I never would have let my damn dog outside to get sprayed by some fuckin’ punk-ass skunk the other day. That sucks. It would be cool though if I could make animals spontaneously combust with my thoughts alone. I mean, I would never do it to a good animal, but if a bear started eating my face at some point, I would totally do it then. And I think I would be justified. Maybe. I wouldn’t if it were a baby Grizzly eating my face though. Because babies don’t really know any better – but I would certainly be judging that baby’s mother as it sunk its teeth into my skull. “This baby Grizzly’s never learned to use his words! Where the fuck is this baby’s mother? I’m going get animal control all up in her bidness”.

Finally, I am not a psychic that gets paid to read your palm or your tarot cards, but I am certainly open to the possibility of that one day. It would be so fun to mess with people. Except I’m actually a really nice person deep down so I would just tell people nice stuff about their futures, unless I got the sixth sense that they were an asshole. Then I would probably tell them they only had a couple of weeks to live, so they could repent and be nice to people so they wouldn’t go to hell. I would be doing others a favor that way, so either way I help humanity. Which is kind of like my life’s mandate. I should also note that there is nothing I like doing better than going to psychics. I don’t go out of my way or anything, but if I walk by a place that says “Psychic Reading – $5” and I have 20 minutes to burn, you can bet your ass I’ll go in there and hear what she has to say. Then I go home and write everything down. One day I’ll have to fish those journals out. But the stuff I remember has all come true, so some people really are psychics. Kind of. Or really good guessers.

(Sorry – my ADD asked me to add this: One of my life’s biggest let downs thus far is that I’ve never been thrown a surprise party or been invited to a party that had a psychic there to tell everyone their fortunes. See, I’m not related to, nor do I hang out with people, who think that would be the best EVER. Except maybe half of the WINOS. But if anybody wants to know how I would like to spend my next birthday? A surprise psychic might be totally in order. We can both totally pretend that you didn’t get the idea from me and I’m totally surprised. But I guess the psychic will probably totally know and tell everybody.)

Okay, so what kind of psychic am I, you ask? Well, I’m the kind that hears a voice in my head once in a while about very important matters who is always right. Unfortunately for my earning power, this voice generally only tells me things about my life on a need-to-know basis, so I can’t really conjure it up for shits and giggles or financial gain. So I’m pretty useless as a psychic at a party or as your friend. But I like to think of my voice as an angel. Probably since I’m Catholic and we Catholics adore our angels. When I was little my mom told me everyone had a guardian angel and I would think about mine for hours. Mostly at bedtime. I wondered if my angel slept when I did or if she kept vigil all night long so no monster could kill me as I slept. I think it must be the latter, because obviously, a monster has never killed me in my sleep and I hold my guardian angel accountable for that. Because I’m sure there were many attempts, especially at ages 4 – 9. But in addition to saving my life countless times, she also tells me stuff.

But not at church. The first time was at a commando party, so I want to note that angels, even Catholic ones, hang out a commando parties, in case you were wondering. I want to clear that up right here, right now, because it needs to be said. So anyway, I’m at this party and my friend tells me that his new roommate graduated the same year I did from the same University and did I know him? He said his name but it wasn’t familiar, so then he pointed him out to me across the room. And then, right then, my angel spoke. “That’s your husband.” Whaaaaat? I’m at a commando party and on my way to getting liquored up and you’re telling me that guy across the room that I’ve never laid eyes on before is my husband? This wasn’t really the way had pictured this going down. I would have done more waxing if I’d have known. Next time, maybe you could give me a little advance notice. And by the way, has anybody informed him of this fact? (The answer to that question, I found out later, was a resounding “no”. He had to be stalked per the pursuit strategy outlined here). At least he was hot. I had that going for me. Our courtship was a saga worthy of a 4 part mini-series and I won’t go into it here, but suffice to say that it was not like we met and it was love at first sight. Or we met that night and then went out on a date right after that. No. Too many starts and stops and drunken oratories to count. There were many a day when I was like, “why the hell did my angel tell me that he was The One, when so clearly he is not?” But she was right, as she always is.

So then the next time my voice piped up, it was straight out of the New Testament. You know how an angel told Mary she was going to have a baby and she was like, “The fuck? I’m a virgin. And not married and I’m like 14”. I’m not sure what verse that is, but you know, look it up. Anyway, except for the part about being a virgin and not married and 14, that’s pretty much the same thing that happened to me. My angel told me the night my son was conceived that I was with child and it was a boy. But thankfully, she did not tell me to name him Jesus. That would have been totally awkward. Because people would call him “Hay-zeus” and I’d be like “No. Its pronounced “Gee-sis”, because it is God’s will”. And I just feel like he and I both would get our asses beat a lot for that. So luckily God did not want my son to get his ass beat. He wanted his kid to have a unique name, so there weren’t like Jesus L. and Jesus C. and Jesus Y.’s in all of Jesus’s classes. Which is totally cool with me. I get it. But now that I think of it I feel bad because probably Mary was thinking the same thing as I was – that she and her son were going to get jacked because of this whole arrangement — and sadly, she was right. That was kind of mean, God. Just sayin’. I constructively criticize Oprah too, so its not like I’m just picking on you.

So when BD and I were trying to conceive our second little person, it didn’t turn out to be as easy as the first time, which had many benefits, if you know what I’m saying, but at the time I wasn’t really focused on the benefits. Anyway, I became convinced that I was infertile and that we’d only have one kid if we didn’t go to all kinds of interesting lengths for number 2. But after months of trying, I was brushing my teeth one morning and then the angel said, clear as day, “There is another little guy on the way.” ( Oooh. Read that last sentence again, slowly. If I ever write a book of poems, I’m totally going to use that last sentence. People pretend like being a poet is hard. Not if you’re a great rhymer/psychic like me. Totally easy.) Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so then my angel tells me I’m pregnant with another boy and by this time, I know my angel is not fucking with me, so I didn’t even have to take a pregnancy test. I just ran into BD and exclaimed, “My angel just said I’m pregnant with a boy!” and he kind of rolled his eyes because I don’t think he is completely convinced about my angel, but then again, he isn’t completely unconvinced, so I did have to prove it on a stick a week or so later when I could take the test, but she was right, yet again.

So I guess what I’m saying is that angels talk to me and tell me stuff. But only when its really important. And that makes me psychic, even if it isn’t the cool kind of psychic. I guess time will tell if I ever land a spot on “The Price is Right” whether my angel would think it was important enough to send me messages so I could yell, “$3.29, Bob!” with complete confidence. Because even if Bob Barker is a sexual predator, I still totally want to spin that wheel. Is that show even on anymore? I’ll have to ask the Internet becuase my angel isn’t answering that question.